


in love and war

by eggstasy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Crush, or is it?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What were you doing parked in the shade for two hours?"</p><p>"Well I can tell you what we WEREN'T doing..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	in love and war

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZombieLieutenant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieLieutenant/gifts).



To their credit, neither of them scream.  Simmons does this _slap-slap-grab_ maneuver onto Grif’s arm when they hit a lot less air than they were going for and just sort of tumble gracelessly into the ditch, but after a bone-shaking bounce they come to a stop and sit there in silence.

“Well _that_ was disappointing,” Grif grumbles eventually, peeling his fingers from the steering wheel.  “You can’t build up any good speed in this stupid sand.  That was less like Dukes of Hazzard and more like Ladies in Waiting of the Mildly Inconvenient.”

“That was a pretty long punchline.”

“Was it reaching?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Grif sighs and climbs out of the Warthog to get a look at the damage.

“I mean, in all fairness we didn’t really have good props.”  Simmons throws the lone scraggly stick they’d managed to locate over the side of the vehicle.  “One sad little twig and a grenade don’t exactly make arrows and dynamite.”

“We all have to make do with what we have, Simmons.”  Grif peers at the wheels.  “Dude, I think we’re stuck.”

“What?”

“I said I think we’re stuck.  The only way to get out is to drive up the sides and there’s no way we’ll get any traction, it’s all sand.”

“Grif, Sarge just fixed this thing!  If we don’t get it out he’ll be pissed!”

“Oh my god, Sarge will be _pissed?_   I’ve never seen him pissed before!  What does that look like?”

Grif can’t see Simmons’s glare through his helmet as he hauls himself back into the Warthog, but he doesn’t have to.  “ _Grif._ ”

“Okay, okay, we’ll try it but I’m telling you, it’s not gonna work.”

It doesn’t work.  The jeep slides back down the sides of the ditch whenever Grif attempts to climb it back out.  Eventually Grif gives up and sighs, leaning back in the driver’s seat.  “Hey, look on the bright side, at least we’re in the shade.”

Simmons grumbles.

“Oh, don’t be such a bitch.  It’s too hot.”

 

* * *

 

“I spy-”

“Sand.”

“ _Wrong._   I was _going_ to say, I spy with my little eye something _brown._ ”

“Sand is brown.”

“What?  No it’s not.  Sand is- well actually sand is a multitude of colors since it’s generally composed of crushed rock, so it depends on the available minerals in the surrounding-”

“Simmons?  Shut up.”

“ _Dirt_ is brown.  Sand is not brown.”

“What the hell’s the difference between dirt and sand?”

“Well you can probably drive a jeep up dirt, for one thing.”

Grif pauses thoughtfully.  “Okay.  I’ll give you that.”

 

* * *

 

“Shit, _those_ three assholes?  Okay.  God.  Uh…”

“Tex is wildcard.  You can also pick her.”

“Does she even count?”

“She mostly worked for them, so, probably.”

“Yeah, but.  Fine, I guess I’d…kill Church, fuck Tucker, marry Caboose.”

Simmons makes a disgusted noise.  “Why the hell would you pick to _marry_ Caboose?  Or fuck Tucker?”

“Well I would pick ‘kill all three’ except that’s not the game, Simmons.  Fuck Tucker because he’d be grateful for anything.  He talks himself up a lot, but he’s totally one of those guys.  Y’know.  The ones who don’t actually get any.”

“Yeah.”

“Marry Caboose because the guy seems like he probably has really good insurance.”

“All right, I can see that.”

Grif nudges Simmons.  “Your turn.”

“Ugh, those three?”

“Yep.  And you _don’t_ get to wildcard Tex.”

“ _What?!_   But I gave _you_ the wildcard!”

“I don’t care, I wanna see what you pick.”

“Ugh.  _Ugh._   Okay.”  Simmons scrunches back into his seat and props his feet up on the dashboard.  “Probably…probably fuck Church, marry Tucker and kill Caboose.”

“You _seriously_ want to marry Tucker?”

“I’d make him sign a prenup that says I get everything in the divorce if he cheats.  So.  Yeah.” 

“Hmm, smart thinking.”

“Plus I figure, if I marry into Blue Team that means I’m _kind of_ on their team, so I have to kill Caboose before he teamkills me.”

“Another good point.  And Church?”

“I dunno, I’ll just put a bag over his head and get it over with.”

Grif laughs.  “Romantic.  Would you really have picked Tex for any of that?”

Simmons sputters.  “I- I dunno, maybe fuck.  Or marry.  Probably marry.  She’s mean, but with all the shit she does she’s probably loaded.”

“You gold-digger.”

“I prefer to call it investment planning.”

 

* * *

 

“Aloha kakahiaka.”

“What about afternoon?”

“Aloha ‘auinalā.”

Simmons is staring.  “Evening?”

“Aloha ahiahi, are you seeing the pattern here?”

“Aloha gets used a lot.”

“Not really.”

The silence that stretches between them is stiff and simmers in the afternoon desert sun.  Or fuck, maybe the sun still doesn’t set, even hundreds of years in the future.  Is hundreds of years enough time to change a planet’s rotation?  Probably not.

“It’s really weird.”

Grif shifts his weight, frowning.  “What’s weird?”

“Nothing, it’s just.  It’s weird to hear you speaking a different language.”

“They had these immersion schools on the islands.  Because not a lot of people just speak it anymore.”

“Uh huh.”

“So they’d put kids in the schools so they learn it alongside English, to keep it from dying out.”

“Right.”

“Most people who know it just don’t use it all that often.  ‘Cause nobody in _space_ speaks it, obviously.”

“Yeah.”

Grif scoffs and folds his arms.  “This is why I don’t say anything about it.”

“What?  Why what?”

“People get stupid.”

“I’m- I’m not getting stupid!”

“Yes you are.  I can _see_ you getting stupid.  You’re getting fucking stupid about it.”

“I think it’s cool, okay?”

Grif looks at Simmons, who is resolutely staring out the passenger side of the Warthog.

“…I just think it’s cool.  To have something to be proud of.”

“Never said I was proud of it,” Grif mutters, though he is.

 

* * *

 

“Eight.  No-” Simmons pauses, tilting his head back.  “Nine times.”

“Jesus Christ, Simmons.”

Simmons shrugs a shoulder.

“That’s a lot of times for a kid to be in the hospital.”

He shrugs again.

“And your dad still tried to get you to play sports?”

“Women’s league.  I can tell you, having tried out for both, there’s no difference.”

“How’d he think he’d get you into the women’s league?”

“He was on the school board.”

“Sounds humiliating.”

Simmons’s voice is sour.  “Yeah.”

“Why were you sick all the time?”

“Hell if I know.”  Simmons props his feet back up and Grif is glad.  Simmons gets insufferable when he’s embarrassed, and talking about his home usually gets him embarrassed but there’s something…nice, going on here.  Something soft between them that they could never really find back in Blood Gulch.  Maybe it’s the open skies or the wind whistling through the rocks or the lack of annoying teammates or commanding officers or enemies.  “One doctor thought it was just nerves.  Psychosomatic.  I get sick once or twice for real, my brain freaks out about getting sick _again_ so then I _keep_ getting sick.”

“Sounds like a bitch.”

“Yeah.  Got cleared for service though, so obviously they didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Your dad also sounds like a bitch.”

Simmons barks out a laugh.  “No, he just.  Y’know.  He wanted me to be stronger.  He just wasn’t big on all the stuff I liked.”

“Nerd stuff?”

Simmons scoffs and looks away.

“I _like_ Battlestar Galactica.”

Simmons looks back over at him, hands draped over his lap.  Relaxed.

“And Star Wars.  Star Trek is okay but not nearly as good.”

“Shut your mouth, infidel,” Simmons says, but it’s in good humor.

 

* * *

 

“Two six five three five eight nine-”

“Simmons.”

“-seven nine three two three eight four-”

“ _Simmons._ ”

“-six two six four three three eight-”

“ _Eight six seven five three oh ni-ine_ ,” Grif sings.

Simmons looks at him.

“I don’t care.  I believe you.  You know all of pi.”

“I know a lot of pi,” Simmons corrects.  “It’s physically impossible to know it all.”

“God.”

“Because it’s an irrational number.”

“ _Shut up._ ”

 

* * *

 

“No Simmons, I _know_ why we’re here.”  Grif wedges his foot against the steering wheel.  “We’re here because Blue Team is full of stupid assholes.”

Simmons nods.  “Amen.”

 

* * *

 

“You think we’re really in the future?”

Grif scratches his arm.  “We’re sure as hell not in the past.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well.  There’s cars.”

Simmons scoffs.  “There were cars in the past, you idiot.”

“It just kind of sucks to think that we’re in a future that’s even _more_ apocalyptic than the present.”

“The present was apocalyptic?”

“Yeah, obviously.  The human race was almost wiped out by murderous aliens.”

“That’s a good point.  I didn’t even know we were in an apocalypse.”

“Most people don’t, Simmons.  That’s what I’m here for.”

Simmons laughs and Grif squashes down the urge to do whatever he can to hear it again.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe we should try to get this thing out of here again.  It’s been over an hour, Sarge is gonna come looking for us soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right.”  Grif toggles the ignition and is met with stony silence.  “…what the fuck?”

“Are you starting it?”

“No, I’m _stopping_ it and expecting it to go.  Yes, I’m starting it!”

“Are you starting it _right?_ ”

“Simmons…”

“All right, all right!  Just checking.”  When the engine refuses to turn, Simmons hops over the side and circles around.  “Okay, pop the hood.”

Grif pops it.  “You gonna see what’s wrong?”

Simmons lifts the hood and props it up, staring down at the insides of the vehicle.  “Go ahead and try to start it.”

Grif primes the ignition, with the same results.  Simmons doesn’t tell him to stop so he does it a few times before Simmons drops the hood back down and climbs in.  “You see what was wrong?”

Simmons looks over at him.  “Honestly, I had no idea what I was even doing in there.”

Grif punches Simmons’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

“I’m just saying-”

“Oh man, I _love_ it when people start out with that.  And by love I mean hate.  Go ahead Grif, what’re you just saying?”

Grif stares at him and weighs his desire to annoy the piss out of Simmons against his desire to avoid the work of an argument.  Annoying Simmons wins out.  “I’m just saying, if you really think about it, you don’t get shit out of being such a kissass.”

“Right.  Yes, of course.  _Promotions_ mean nothing.”

“They don’t!”

“Right.”

“Name one thing a promotion actually gets you.”

“Uh, more money?  The respect of your peers?  Higher military ranking, literally everything that a promotion is _supposed_ to get you?”

“But look, promotions also get you more _work._   Is the amount of work you have to do equal to the benefits you get?  No.”

“That’s subjective.  You can’t say that’s true for everybody.  Or most people actually, or anybody who isn’t you because you’re honestly the fucking laziest fatass I have ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“Okay, what about _after_ the military?  War’s done, you get downsized.”

“There’s the reserves and nobody gets just _let go_ from the military, Grif-”

“ _Stay with me, Simmons._   You stop being in the military for whatever reason.  Now you gotta find yourself a job.  You say hey, I started out as a Private, but I ended up as like a Corporal or something.  You know what jobs care about that?”

Simmons throws his hands in the air.  “ _All_ of them!”

“No, _cop jobs._   Which is exactly the same thing as being in the military, except now you’re responsible for your own commute.”

“This is _literally_ the dumbest debate I’ve ever been involved in.  It’s like conventional wisdom doesn’t even apply to you.”

“I prescribe _un_ conventional wisdom, Simmons.  It’s much more valuable.”

“Right.  I'm sure it's in  _very_ high demand.”

 

* * *

 

“So what _are_ you gonna do when we get out of here?”

“Assuming we don’t die horribly?”

“Assuming.”

Grif tilts his head back.  “Go home, I guess.”

“Go home?  Hundreds of years in the future?”

“Hey, it’s not like land has an expiration date.  It’s probably still there.”  Grif leans against the frame.  “Why, what’re _you_ gonna do?”

Simmons tilts his head.  The sunlight catches his visor and Grif turns away from the glare until his HUD dims to compensate.  “I dunno.”

“Not gonna go say hi to your asshole dad?”

“Dad doesn’t do a whole lot of talking with me anymore.”

Grif ignores the way his gut burns with a little shame at that.  “Yeah, well.  Fuck that guy.”

Simmons’s voice is soft when he turns away.  “…thanks.”

“If you don’t have any plans, wanna come with me?”  Simmons looks back over.  Grif shrugs.  “Hawaii’s a vacation spot for a reason.  You’ll probably love it, everybody always does.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says thoughtfully.  “Maybe I’ll do that.”

Grif has never been happier for his helmet, even if the climate controls are fucked up.  He doesn’t even want to _think_ about the look that just crossed his face.  “…cool, so, now that that’s settled, we should probably check back in with Sarge.”

Simmons climbs out of the passenger side, though he sounds dubious when he says, “Okay, so we probably should’ve done it two hours ago, but why do _you_ want to check in?”

“If I’m going to get shot, which I _probably_ am, I want to get it over with.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

No, Grif thinks as he falls into step behind Simmons, as he watches the straightest of straight nerds fumble his way up a sand dune and then stick out a hand to help him, it’s really not.

It’s really not fair at all.

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit this thing is mostly dialogue  
> shut up you two
> 
> EDIT: HAHAHA [THE GIFTEE](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieLieutenant) HAS DRAWN LOVELY FANART OF SIMMONS BEING A DUMB TOOL PLEASE [CHECK IT OUT](http://redead-red.tumblr.com/post/143275864609/sex-cymbal-wrote-an-amazing-grimmons-for-me-ur)


End file.
